


Only Me

by Ghostinthehouse



Series: Demon and Angel Professors [39]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Professors, Disabled Crowley (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22117438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostinthehouse/pseuds/Ghostinthehouse
Summary: Crowley parked in his usual spot, conveniently close to the door for bad days, folded his arms on the steering wheel and rested his forehead on them.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Warlock Dowling, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling
Series: Demon and Angel Professors [39]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1412962
Comments: 41
Kudos: 1448
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	Only Me

Crowley parked in his usual spot, conveniently close to the door for bad days, folded his arms on the steering wheel and rested his forehead on them. His leg chose that moment to cramp slightly and a hiss escaped him.

A thin, scared, noise from the backseat pulled him back into shaky focus.

"Warlock," he said, trying to move as little as possible to avoid setting anything else off, "there's a pair of walking sticks in the coat rack. Think you could run up and get them?"

A breath of relief. "Yeah," Warlock said. They slipped out of the car and vanished inside.

"Crowley, dear?"

"Mm?" No touching, old instincts reminded him. Not where others can see. Not safe.

Aziraphale went on, "You're the expert in painful legs. How do you recommend I get out of the car?"

Crowley sighed, and peeled himself off the steering wheel, letting his head fall back against the headrest instead. "Slide round so you have both feet sticking out the door, then haul yourself up. Should wait for the stick. Your pain tolerance isn't going to be like mine."

Warlock brought the sticks, and they got them sorted out, and into the lift, and out of the lift, and into the flat with the door shut. And for a long moment, Crowley forgot enough to just wrap an arm around Aziraphale and bury his face in his beloved's shoulder.

It couldn't last. Warlock made some small sound, and Crowley flinched instinctively free, whipping round ready to defend...He caught himself before he did any direct harm, but not before the kid had flinched back from him in turn.

That was the last thing he needed right now. He didn't have the strength left to be anyone else's support. "I'll be in the bedroom," he croaked, and bolted for that relative solitude and safety as fast as his wretched leg would let him.

***

Warlock and Aziraphale watched him go.

Aziraphale sighed, leaning on the apple stick rather more than he'd have preferred, but needs must. He looked at Warlock, cowering back against the wall as if they expected to be screamed at or hit. "It isn't you," he said softly. "He's got more trauma than he likes to let on, and today's been rather - rough - on him."

Warlock didn't exactly look convinced, but they at least peeled themself away from the wall. "If he doesn't want me here... what do I do?"

"You stay here," Aziraphale ordered. "Get yourself something to eat, get some rest. I'll- I'll look after him."

Warlock sagged in relief, and headed for the kitchen. Aziraphale hobbled after Crowley.

He found him face down on the bed, dark glasses tossed on the bedside table. Aziraphale closed the door behind himself, and eased onto the bed beside Crowley, letting the mattress support the strained leg. It would heal soon enough, he knew, but for now, it was a relief to have that support. "It's only me," he murmured. "We're alone. Are you ok with touch?"

Crowley turned his head enough to bare one red rimmed eye, and reached out to clutch Aziraphale. Some cautious jockeying of sticks and sore legs followed. They finally ended up with Crowley's arm wrapped over Aziraphale's chest, his face buried in Aziraphale's waistcoat, and Aziraphale's hand buried in Crowley's hair, stroking gently as Crowley shook against him, part tears and part fear. "I'm here," he repeated, over and over. "I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."

Eventually, the shudders slowed and then stopped, although Crowley didn't look up. "'M'sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't be." Aziraphale let his fingers trail across the nape of Crowley's neck. "I'm the one that messed up."

Crowley did lift his head then, a long breath escaping him and a flicker of amusement creeping in. "You know, a whole lot of the students still don't believe I'm your husband."

"Of course you are," Aziraphale said, trying to match the lightness Crowley was offering. "What else would you be? An aardvark?"


End file.
